


the moon, of course, is always there

by euphorial_docx



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, just guys being dudes, theo is depressed but won't admit it, theo is repressed but won't admit that either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorial_docx/pseuds/euphorial_docx
Summary: Boris convinces Theo to stay one more day.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 19
Kudos: 156





	1. blue shadows, yellow light

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for the support so far!! it really means a lot to me. 
> 
> when i’m writing i often post snippets of it on my twitter, @/windsandstarss, so go follow me if you please :)

I.

“We were in the gold room where everyone  
finally gets what they want”

— Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain

II.

“Are you coming with me? Yes or no?”

The question was heavy in every way possible. I could feel it pressing down on me, see it pressing down on Boris, threatening to drag us both down and crush us under its weight. It hadn't mattered what answer he gave me, it would have been both right and wrong. It would end with us stuck beneath it all.

“I need some time. I mean,” He said, following after me, “we can’t leave now! Really— I swear. Wait a little while. Give me a day! One day!”

Wrong answer, right answer, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I was just fucking exhausted.

“Why?” I didn't bother hiding my fatigued frustration.

Boris stood rigid, stilled, eyes holding contact with mine. “Well, I mean, because—”

“Because—?”

“Because— because I have to see Kotku! And— all kinds of things!” I rolled my eyes and kept walking, heavy steps up the stairs. “Honest, you can’t leave tonight. Trust me. You’ll be sorry, I mean it. Come to my house! Wait till the morning to go!”

I grabbed my half of the cash and looked Boris in the eye, determined, and told him: “I can’t wait.”

“Potter…” Boris trailed after me again, arms crossed and eyes wide. 

“Yes?” I shot him a quick glance over my shoulder, but otherwise too focused on getting to my room, packing a bag, and never looking back (which I dreaded would be easier said than done.)

“There is something important I have to tell you.”

“Boris, what the mother fuck. What is it?” I sighed deeply when he said nothing. He stood there, arms folded over his chest, dark eyes staring into mine, completely silent. “If you have something to say, go on and say it.”

“Am afraid it will make you mad.”

I shifted on my feet, “What is it? What have you done?”

Boris went silent, gnawing the side of his thumb. 

“Well, what?”

Boris’s eyes left mine, looking away. Looking to the floor, the wall, anything but me. “You need to stay. You’re making a mistake.” He said vaguely.

“Forget it,” I huffed, turning my back to him. “If you don’t want to come with me, don’t come, okay? But I can’t stand around here all night.”

I moved to get the painting (hidden inside a pillowcase taped to the back of my headboard, close enough but not too close) but a pale hand latched onto my wrist. Boris. His grip wasn’t hard, but it was urgent, desperate even, and the look on his face was proof.

“Theo,” He pronounced my name odd, with a slavic elocution, but I’m too caught up in him using my name and his hand near mine to give it much attention. 

I closed my eyes, exhaling deeply. “What, Boris?”

He muttered words under his breath, in Ukrainian I believed (I learned to tell the difference). I let myself wait a few moments longer, holding onto the childish hope that he’ll speak and it’d change something. I’m not sure what that something was, but a part of myself wanted it to be changed, and for Boris to be the one to have changed it.

“Tomorrow.” He determined. He let go of my wrist. “Tomorrow, and I’ll go with you. I promise.”

Promises, I learned, could mean everything. They can also mean nothing.

I shook my head. “I don’t have tomorrow.”

Boris narrowed his eyes at me.” How do you know?”

“Because I’ve done this before!” Unintentionally, my voice raised. For a split second, I worried my yelling would awaken Xandra and she’d come stomping in, snatching her money back and dialing social services before I could get another word out, ripping my choices away with her manicured nails. 

“Maybe it will be different this time! Maybe!” Boris spoke loud as well, although it sounds more pleading than angered.

“Maybe isn’t good enough.” I told him lowly. 

Suddenly, Boris’s hands were on both sides of my head, face inches from mine. If it were anyone else, I would have flinched, smacked their hands away, told them to fuck off, but it hadn’t been just anyone.

“Theo. Stay.” He whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him, but I did. “One day. Just one, and I’ll go with you. To California, to New York, wherever… I’ll go.”

“Boris—”

“Potter,” He cracked a crooked smile. I was tempted to do the same. “One day.”

I imagined where I’d be in that one day, if I stayed and if I had gone. If I left right then, the next day I’d be on a bus alone, a hollow promise of Boris following me thousands of miles away. I’d have the painting to keep me company, but the rest would be a blur of uncertainty. The remainder of my life would be wasted wondering where Boris is, what he’s doing, if he’s safe and alive, if he thinks of me.

Then there’s the imagery of staying. I would never find the courage to leave again. If I got lucky I’d spend the rest of my life red under the sun, drugs and alcohol picking away at me from the inside out, dragging Boris down with me under the sand and stars. Nothing would change, a thought that both brought me comfort and terrified me down to the core of my existence.

“Fine.” I decided, futile. It sounded and tasted like the wrong choice, but it felt more than right.

Boris’s grin only grows wider, relieved, and he speaks to me in Russian. He says thank you, over and over again, pressing his forehead against mine. His eyes are closed, and I look at him. I silence the thousands of questions circling my mind (what does he have to tell me? what is he hiding?) and let his solace wash over me. I breathed in his air and breathed it out again.

Boris, still so close I could feel his breath of my face, told me, “I don’t know what I would have done if you left.”

“Honestly,” The corners of my lips tugged upwards, “I don’t know what I would have done if I left.”

One of his hands traveled to my neck. “I think you need drink, Potter. You look shit.” With his other hand, the one on my cheek, he smacked me affectionately. 

He wandered out of the room, leaving me to own devices. I packed my bag, suddenly sick to my stomach. I threw in the stolen money, clothes, the painting, and more clothes to cushion it with. It’s only one day, I told myself, just 24 hours. But I more than anyone knew that 24 hours could change everything.

Eventually I joined Boris in the living room, sipping on vodka and beer as the stars and moon illuminate the desert outside. I found myself staring into it, the vast, endless blur of orange and brown— that’s where my father was heading. Into the desert. I half-heartedly wondered if he planned on coming back, but I hadn’t let myself linger on it too much, knowing the answer likely wasn’t pleasant. No matter his intentions it ended the same: with him gone and me left in the air.

The rest of the evening dragged on painfully slow. There was a lot of waiting around for nothing, tense silences falling between Boris and I, and the constant reminders that my father was dead. My mother too, although her death wasn’t a reminder. It was always in the back of my mind, a shadow following me through life. From the cigarette left in the ashtray to the astrology book on the kitchen counter, my dad was beginning to look like a shadow too.

Around midnight, I began to crash. The drugs wore off, the light buzz of the alcohol lulled me to sleep, all the events of the night caught up to me, and Boris attempted to keep me awake. If he didn’t want to be alone, or wanted more time with me until the one day was up, I’m not sure. No amount of movies, jokes, or alcohol could have kept my eyes from closing. 

When I came to, I thought of those nights I can remember. Bits and pieces, just enough to make sense of it but not enough to give it meaning. Much like memories of my mom, of New York, Hobie and antiques, I pulled this memory from the corner of my mind when I sought comfort. In many ways it was pathetic, clinging to the past as if it were the one thing keeping me afloat, but it felt like the only way. The only way to fall back to sleep, the only way to get up every morning, the only way to reach the destination I couldn’t perceive quite yet.

One of the nights my bedroom was blue with shadows, yellow light streamed through the cracked door, but I was looking up. Above me, were his dark eyes. The light pouring in surrounded him like a halo, so much so I doubted it happened at all, briefly thinking it was an elaborate dream but I knew it couldn’t be. I could see the glint in his eyes, my fingers could feel the cut on his lip, he weighed me down but I hadn’t minded (the weight felt nice this time), and he said something to me I can’t remember. Maybe it was in russian, polish, or perhaps english, or maybe I was too drunk to recall more than that fleeting moment. The last thing I remembered was him blinking, then morning came around and I slowly forgot all but that split second of comfort.

On nights like the one my father died, the ones where I clung to the moments that made me happy, that memory was the one that resurfaces. Not my mom, not the Barbour’s, not Hobie, not even Pippa with her classical music and pastelled bedroom. It was Boris and I, shadows and intoxicated minds, a second that felt as if it could change the world if mentioned anywhere but inside my mind. It’s hidden and concealed with the same urgency and care as the painting.

The living room was dark by the time I woke up, shifting light emitted from the television before me. I glanced outside. It was so dark I could only see my reflection in the window. Looking at myself, I became painfully aware of the grief I was feeling. It was limited, but it was there nonetheless— a dull ache, mourning the potential more than the reality. 

I tore my eyes away from my reflection, facing Boris. He was slouched on the couch beside me, leaning into me, head tilted back against the cushions, but his eyes were open and he had a lit cigarette in his hand. I could see how drained he was, the dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes, struggling to focus on the bright screen. 

“How long was I asleep?” I asked, slurring my words as I struggle to keep my eyes from closing again.

“Two hours. Maybe.” He shrugged and took a sip of his dwindling beer.

“Did Xandra wake up again?” I held my hand out, and Boris, getting the message, handed me the cigarette.

“Yeah, while back. Wanted food, wine.” Once again, Boris shrugged. “Then she went back to bed. Has not been out since.”

“She didn’t say anything to you?”

“Nah,” Boris watched me as I took a drag, waiting his turn. “Think she was too out of it to notice we stole. Dropped a glass in the kitchen— no worries, I cleaned it.”

“Oh, thanks.” I passed off the cigarette.

Boris waved his hand dismissively, “Not a big deal.” For some reason, I thought it was.

“What did you want to tell me?” He wouldn’t answer quite yet, I knew him well enough, but I couldn’t help but ask.

“Tomorrow.” He flicked the ash off the cigarette.

“Tomorrow.” I repeated. “When are we leaving?”

Boris smirked, “Tomorrow.” 

“Asshole.” I muttered, kicking his feet off the coffee table. There was no bite to any of it. “You said you had things to do. When do you think you’ll be ready to go?”

“Not sure, Potter.” 

“Guess.”

Boris stilled. He stubbed out his cigarette, slouching further into the couch as if he wanted to be swallowed whole. “You might not want me to go with.” He said grimly. He stared off into nothing, deep in thought. “You will hate me.”

The words fell from my mouth too quick, too easily, “I could never hate you.”

Boris’ eyes were searching mine then, trying to detect the lie. From the sigh he gave, I knew he couldn’t find one. “Is what you think. You do not know.” Is all he said, and he said it like it’s the end.

“I could never hate you, Boris.” I told him again. In my groggy, hungover state, I truly thought that saying it over and over would make him believe it. 

“Okay, Potter.” He said what he knew I wanted to hear, and despite knowing he was lying, I let myself believe it. I hadn’t thought there could’ve been anything to drive a wedge between us, not when we were on a couch with much more space to give than what we took.

Silence fell between us again. I wallowed in it. Boris and I both knew that thinking can be a dangerous thing for me. There had been countless nights of me threatening to jump off the roof or staying underwater too long, most of the attempts weren’t serious but it never made them untrue. Even sober, clear-headed, those thoughts would creep up on me. The only difference being that I know better than to go through with it. 

However, on occasion, thinking helped me. Replaying those memories (blue shadows, yellow light) seem to have kept the bad ones away (the explosion, a hand in ash), even if it was only a temporary fix. One minute of past happiness was enough to keep me going through a lifetime of tribulations.

“Potter,” A hand slapped my cheek, careful and alarming, and my eyes blinked open. Had I fallen asleep again?

“What?” I mumbled incoherently, staring up at the faceless figure. 

“Get up, Potter. Off to bed.” The familiar voice ordered, hands on mine and tugging me up to stand. I swayed a bit, still off-kiltered and confused. 

I didn’t fight as Boris led me up the stairs. We tripped over a few steps, crumbling to the ground in sleep-deprived laughter that bounced off the walls, but then he hauled me up and put one foot in front of the other like a soldier to battle. I hadn’t realized how drunk we were until then, marching as an infantry of two.

Boris pushed the door open with his shoulder, me hanging off his other side, and laid me down onto the bed. He meant to settle me slowly, I’m sure of it, but clumsily let go too early and dropped me onto the mattress rather ungracefully.

He muttered something russian, then apologized in english. “Sorry, sorry.”

I hadn’t responded, only curled up on the bed and turned away from him. I was cold, but made no move to pull the blanket over myself. All I wanted was to close my eyes and wake up to find that it had all been some fucked up trip, and Boris and I could continue where we left off: fucking around at the playground, falling from the monkeybars and getting burned by the metal slide as the world faded into black and white.

“Potter?” 

I buried my face into the pillow. My chest constricted, preventing air from getting in or out, and there was a deadened ache taking all my attention. When the words first fell from Xandra’s lips (“he died. he’s dead.”) I thought, sooner or later, I’d be overcome with pain and guilt and all the things I felt after my mother had died. It hadn’t happened yet. In some ways I felt sad, numb, but not as much as I felt I should have. My father had died and I couldn’t even cry for him.

I felt the bed dip down, my ears picked up on the shuffling and shifting of Boris as he clambered under the covers. He pulled the blanket over me as well without uttering a word. It wasn’t often that Boris was quiet, he always humming, or laughing, or yelling, or telling me about his misadventures across seas, making noise, but when he was quiet there was always a reason.

“Boris?” I whispered into the familiar blue shadows.

“Yes?”

“Nevermind.”

III.

I dreamt of my father for the first time in a long time. He was driving his car into the desert. The car had been battered and damaged beyond repair, but it roared into the desert like it had a lot of life left inside. I ran after him, tripping over rocks and uneven terrain in the dead of night. I didn’t want to follow him out there, I was angry. I wanted the chance to scream at him and throw my fists at him, but I couldn’t do that if he died.

When I fell for the last time, my foot had gotten caught on a tuft of dried grass, I looked up to the moon. The moon is the same everywhere you go, after all, even in your dreams.

IV.

I woke up to Xandra stood in the doorway. 

It had been a startling sight, not only because of her appearance— smudged makeup, tired eyes, glass of red wine in her hand despite the early hours— but because of Boris. His arm was sprawled across my chest, legs tangled with mine, and his face too close to my neck. Xandra took in our position, seemingly unsurprised, or perhaps she was too caught up in her mourning to care how we behaved behind closed doors.

“You’re still here.” This observation she was surprised by. 

I opened my mouth to speak, but decided against it. The sight of her in the doorway looked and felt wrong. As if Xandra couldn’t possibly exist without my father, like a package deal I never asked for and couldn’t return. But there she was, breathing the same air and sharing the same space as me. Some time during my internal conflict, she wandered off and out of sight. Out of sight and out of mind.

I collapsed onto my bed, the springs groaning in protest beneath the mattress and the headboard scraping against the drywall. Boris stirred beside me, eyes twitching, inhaling sharply. His eyes then opened, dark and squinting as they roamed around and landed on me. We looked at each other, observing, contemplating, wondering who would speak first. And it turns out, neither of us had to. 

I let myself have a moment to catch my breath. I looked at the bracelets adorning his pale wrist, and the jagged pink scar just above his eyebrow, and his unmoving shadow against the wall, and I breathed. Once, twice, three times, then I rose to my feet and shut the bathroom door behind me without a word. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and cleaned my glasses, wanting to be preoccupied to avoid the storm rolling my way. I could hear the thunder in the distance, feel the rain hitting my skin, warning me I couldn’t outrun it forever. I could still try, though.

I exited the bathroom, no understanding of how much or little time had passed, to see Boris stomping his foot into his old boot. The zipper had broken off a while back, leaving it infinitely zipped up as well as making the act of putting on a shoe a much harder task that it should have been. Boris froze for just a moment before scrambling to put on his other boot. 

“Where are you going?” I questioned, more timid than I care to admit.

“Have things to do. I told you last night, remember?” He hadn’t looked at me as he spoke, something which hadn’t bothered me until that moment. I only wanted him to look me in the eye and tell me what had been important enough to keep me on Desert End Road.

“I’m going with you.” I determined, only making up my mind after I already let it slip.

“You don’t want to. Trust me.” Boris mumbled and shook his head. I could see the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“How do you know that?” 

Boris stood up, more or less a foot taller than I had been. “I’m going to see Kotku, that is how I know.” He brushed past me, not before giving me a languid smile, and walked towards the door.

Like a leech I latched onto his arm. “Will you come back?” I asked. I hadn’t cared if I came off as timid or desperate at that time, because I was both of those things.

I was scared he’d never come back and desperate to keep him. He had the intention of staying by my side, that much I knew, but it was Kotku we were talking about. Kotku’s beauty, Kotku’s music, Kotku’s anything and everything— she’s all he talked about back then. Insecurity bled through the cracks, making me question if my place was above or below her.

Black eyes flickered to the hand on his wrist, then back to me, the boy holding it. “Of course.”

Not enough! I wanted to yell. That’s not enough for me to wait for you!

Too many words buzzing inside my head, and all I said was “Promise me.” because a promise was the closest thing to enough.

“I promise.” He said, and I had no choice but to believe him.

We parted ways shortly after that, Boris off to catch the first bus that would take him to the Double R while I hung back bitterly. Unspokenly, I hung his promise over his head with every disconcerting image my brain drew up. I pictured never seeing Boris again, but he promised. I pictured him returning only to take it all back, but he promised. His promise was the only thing keeping me where he left me.

Blue shadows, yellow light. I saw it every time I closed my eyes, with every bleak outcome that came to mind, when I needed to remind myself of his promise. A mantra. Blue shadows, yellow light. A stupid mantra. All it managed to do was paint me a picture I hadn’t wanted to see, or rather a painted picture I wanted to hide. It was neither good or bad, it only existed. That’s all I had wanted it to do. Exist without impact.

He never said when he'd come back. Boris. I waited for the entire afternoon, lounging on my bed with many cigarettes and ash covering my bedsheets, beer spilled onto the carpet. I kept glancing outside my window, as if he’d magically dash across the street and up to the front door solely from the act of me peering through the window. I waited long enough that my eyes got heavy, and when I got the strength to open them, the sun had just begun to set.

The first thing I did after waking was look out the window again, like clockwork, and there had been no sight of the black-haired figure on the streets below. Seeing no better waste of time, I dug through my packed bag and found the box of crumpled cigarettes, and let one hang from my lips as I watched the streets before me. The sky was warm toned, the sunlight was escaping, and the street lights were coming to life, yet no sign of Boris came for a long while. I waited for nothing that had the potential to become everything.

Hours passed. I finished off the cigarette alone and the streets remained lifeless. I couldn’t help but feel I was running out of time, the window of opportunity was closing quickly, seconds ticking away until the bomb would inevitably go off. I had to leave before the world caught fire and the fire changed the landscape, so I considered leaving without Boris. I had been alone before, I could do it again, but the only thing preventing me was that I didn’t want to be alone in the world.

From my windowsill, I didn’t see Boris, but I had seen Xandra. I watched her get inside her friend’s car and drive far enough that I couldn’t see. Then I had been truly alone. I ate an overdue dinner, oranges and a glass of water, and couldn’t get myself to waste time with anything productive or entertaining. It felt wrong to watch television, or listen to music, or read, so I went outside and sat by the pool. There was no better place to do nothing.

It was humid and the air was thick, and I thought about a time I couldn’t remember. Boris and I woke up and found bile floating across the pool, our clothes missing from our bodies and scattered about the property. We spent that afternoon cleaning up after ourselves. I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. It felt like an entire lifetime went by since.

I laid on my back, eyes staring up at the sunset sky, and I closed my eyes. A selfish part of me never wanted them to open again. 

IV.

I tried to find her, I swear I did, but she couldn’t even look at me.

There had been a certain haziness, a surrealist twist, that made me realize deep down that it was a dream. My mom was alive, dressed in the same attire she died wearing, and she was looking at a painting. The Anatomy Lesson. I stood before a bare wall, the grim outline of a painting the only indication one had ever been there. The Goldfinch.

I searched the room for the sight of red hair, but there had been too many people. I didn’t question why dozens upon dozens of bystanders were packed inside the gallery, the surrealism felt real. I turned back to my mother in time to see her walk towards the exit. An alarm went off inside my head.

I tried so hard to scream for her, but my voice was overpowered by all the others in the room. I got lost in the crowd. I shoved men and women, my eyes locked on my mother. I didn’t want to lose her again. I pushed and pushed, but the distance between us only grew. I wondered why she was leaving without me. What had I done? Was it the cigarettes? Or was it that I’m the reason she’s dead?

I never got to ask her, because the moment she stepped through the door the gallery was overcome with ash and smoke. 

V.

Boris kicked me awake, a few hours later. He was standing over me in the moonlight, a blue shadow cast over his features. Blue shadows, yellow light.

I rose to my feet immediately, as if I had been pulled upwards by an unseeable force. In all my waiting around, rage must have came to be. Boris had to have seen it on my face, the betrayal, the anger, because his face had displayed just the opposite and more. There was a cut on his forehead, badly cleaned, and his cheekbone was tinted red. I was confused. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” I crossed my arms over my chest, defensive, and he did the same in a way that was diffident.

“Taking care of things.” He explained, ill-defined. “Sorry it took so long, but I am ready now. To go.” 

“Did you see your dad?” I questioned cautiously, eyeing the minor injuries littering his skin. Bruises, cuts, and scrapes had a habit of sticking out against his pale skin.

“No.” He hesitated. “Yes. For a bit. Saw him, but he never saw me. Was asleep when I came home.” He narrowed it down for me. The only other person he saw was Kotku, and I didn't want to dwell on her existence more than I already had.

“Okay,” My arms fell to my sides. “I’ll go get my stuff.”

I went inside, Boris slowly trailing in after me, and when I was out of his sight I raced to my bedroom to gather my things. That feeling had come back. There was no time. The window would shut on me at any given moment, trapping me indefinitely. I searched through my bag, for the money, for the painting. I turned to meet Boris downstairs to find him stood in the doorway of me room. Déjà vu. This had happened before.

My stomach dropped but I willed myself to ignore it. “Let’s go.” I said, but Boris didn’t move out of the way. “What, Boris?”

“I…” He couldn’t get it out. 

“You… what?”

“I think we should go tomorrow. Right when sun comes up, and we’ll be gone. It would be easier that way.”

“No.” My frustration was at its peak. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to punch him or let myself cry. “We can’t keep doing this, Boris! We can’t wait until tomorrow, or the next tomorrow, we need to leave tonight. We’re lucky that Xandra hasn’t noticed we stole from her yet, but we might not be as lucky tomorrow. I’m leaving tonight.!Are you coming with me?”

“I don’t know.” He looked down when he said it, shameful.

My chest hurt, a sharp pain behind my ribcage. “Then why tell me you would? Why let me think you want to go with me, when you actually have no fucking idea what you want? You should have just told me, you wouldn’t have wasted so much of my time.”

“Potter…” 

“I’m not listening to this. I have to go.”

“Theo.”

“What!”

Then he kissed me. It hadn’t lasted very long, just shy of seven seconds, but his lips were firm against mine and his hands were hot against my cheeks and I wanted it to exist with an impact. When Boris pulled away, he seemed surprised at his own actions, possibly more surprised than I had been.

I started to say his name, but it died in my mouth. I couldn’t get it out. My head was fuzzy, my heart was beating so fast I swore it was minutes away from leaping out of my chest, but it all made sense. I hadn’t had all the details, or truly grasped the meaning behind it, but all felt as if it were in the right place. Even if it only felt that way for one moment.

When I finally got out of own head and really looked at Boris, he looked troubled. His mouth opened and closed, as if he was working out the best course of action, something I hadn’t seen from him all too much. He was an impulsive mess, jumping from one obsession to the next, taking without asking, never once waiting for permission, but there he was thinking something through. Over and over he thought, and over and over I waited for him. 

“You said you could never hate me. Is that true?” He whispered, words meant for only our ears. 

“It’s true.” I whispered back without a doubt.

Boris, his hands still on my face and his eyes gazing into mine. Boris, my first and only friend in the desert wasteland of Vegas. Boris, the greatest person I have ever gotten the chance to know. Boris, who was all of these things, said five words that set the entire world on fire.

“The painting. I have it.”

VI.

“We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want,  
so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me.  
Here I am leaving you clues.  
I am singing now while Rome burns.  
We are all just trying to be holy.  
My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me.  
We are all going forward.  
None of us are going back.”

— Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain


	2. the bedroom ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update, but it’s finally here! I really love writing this fic but it just takes a lot out of me. 
> 
> And sorry if there’s any grammar errors, I didn’t review it too much before posting because I wanted to get it out as soon as possible. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

I.

“While you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor  
And you realize you didn’t paint it very well.”

— Richard Siken, In The Quietness

II.

I forgot where I was, at that moment. The only thing that was reminiscent of current time were Boris’s words, repeating over and over again in my head on a torturous and never ending loop. It would echo inside my ears forever, it seemed, exactly as the ringing after the bombing.

The bombing.

The bombing is where I had taken it. I was the first to steal it. It had never truly been mine, but was it anymore his? Does this incident make it both of ours together? Some bitter, grieving side of me screamed that it was mine and only mine, and it cried about how I let anybody else see it, let alone touch it and take it from my hands. I took it for her, why had he taken it from me? What desire could he possibly have towards it so strong that he’d betray me as such? It hadn’t made any bit of sense.

Faintly, as if my head was underwater, I could hear Boris explain. I couldn't listen, not that I had the focus or the means to even if I wanted to hear his fucked thought process. I was suddenly in the museum, ash and smoke and darkness and the feeling of blood on my hands. I couldn’t breathe, the air was thick and stuck in my throat. I was choking on it. Choking on the words in my mouth, choking on the fallout of it all, on the blame I irately harbored against myself. I could have spun the truth many ways to shift that blame off of me, but I’d always known it was my fault. This was my doing and undoing.

Boris had stopped talking by then, and we were standing in deafening silence. He could have shut his mouth long before then, could have been waiting for a lot longer than I thought, but I couldn’t find the right words to say. Were there words for this situation? What could possibly be said by either party to fix this? I desperately wanted to fix it, more than anything, but it was a daunting task I hadn’t been prepared for. 

My mouth moved, and my brain was too caught up in the web of burning questions to filter my words. “Have it?” I asked, miles behind.

“Potter,” I was looking at him, but all I could see clearly was the museum. The dark, the blood, the ash. “I am so sorry.”

“You took it?” By then I had known, but I couldn’t help but question it. It was hard to comprehend, and even harder to believe. “I don’t… you took it?”

“I took it.” Is all he said, a confirmation.

“Why—“ I forced down the ash drying out my mouth. “why would you do that?”

His eyes looked glassy, but I rationalized it as the lighting hitting him a certain way. “I don’t know. I have no reason.”

He didn't know why, and somehow that hurt worse than if he wanted to sell it or simply pull a prank because I could’ve argued that he needed money or wanted to have fun. I had no argument to save face. Boris had seen something of mine, something I hid and protected from the world, and he took it away with no purpose. He was careless. He hadn’t thought twice about hurting me. He didn’t think of me when he did it. I didn’t want that truth to hurt, but it had.

“You don’t—“ I stammered, “you don’t know?”

“Potter,” I looked at him and my veins felt red hot. “There is nothing I can say to… to help this. I made a mistake. I am so sorry. I can’t— where are you going?”

I gravitated towards my packed bag. To think only moments before I was ready to drop everything and disappear with Boris, like some gay romance film where we run off into the sunset hand-in-hand. I trusted him enough to start over with him, and he trusted me. That trust, a rare brotherhood built over the years, had then been severed.

I dug through the bag until I came across the painting, or rather a thing I thought was it. As I ripped through the layers of newspaper, a childish doubt crept into my mind— what if it’s there? What if he’s joking, what if this is a dream, what if, what if, what if. It was pointless, because it wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there.

A Civics textbook took its place, all bright colors and smiling faces. The people on the page, diverse for diversity's sake, stared at me with blank eyes and I could almost hear them laughing at me. Laughing at how badly I messed it all up.

“Where is it?” My fists were clenched at my sides, my entire body felt tense. One touch and I was sure I’d die.

“Is with me. In my bag. I will give it back to you—“

“Let me see it.” I had felt unbearably sad before, and too happy on past or drug-fueled occasions, but never had I been that angry. It scared me how enraged I was.

Boris, without a word and with hunched shoulders, shuffled down the stairs and I followed. I watched his every move, as if to catch him in a lie or fucking up. I noticed how he caved into himself, how much smaller he made himself, and knew it was because of me. We’d hit each other too many times to be scared of our fists, but we’d never been this vulnerable while sober. With drinks and drugs it was easier to wave off our vulnerabilities, and it was certainly too late to get high and be brave.

Boris grabbed his bag where he left, on top of the counter, and pulled out an array of things. Clothes, mostly, but also a book, a phone, and then it. It was in the heart of the bag, protected by fabric, but other than that it was insecure. It was shoved inside a different bag, clearly Boris hadn’t had a clear understanding of how important it had been. Is a thing, I could practically hear him say. Only a thing.

He turned to me and held it out. I was scared to touch it, scared to look him in the eye. I didn’t want to see it harmed, I didn’t want to see him harmed either. It was then I wished, back at the pool when I fell asleep, that I never let my eyes open. I should have dove head-first into the pool or run into the desert or lay in the middle of a busy road or leave without him, because at least then I could have died without ever knowing.

I set the flimsy bag on the table, hesitating before unzipping it. I knew the moment I laid my eyes on it, the way the light hit its surface, that it was my painting. The bird peaked through the opening, it’s black eyes gazing into mine. I hadn’t laid my eyes on it in a long while, and seeing it then felt like running into an old friend on the street. I never realized how badly I had missed it.

I carefully pulled the painting out of the bag, admiring it in the yellow-tinted light as I said; “You should leave.”

I hadn’t wanted him to leave. Not really. The problem was that I couldn’t look him in the eye, I couldn’t be around him, without remembering what he did. I couldn’t push him away and keep him too, it had to be one or the other. 

“Potter—“

“Go.” I didn’t want to hear his voice. I’d break before him and I didn’t want him close enough to pick up the pieces this time.

“I am so sorry. Believe me.”

“Okay,” I nodded softly. “but I still want you to leave.”

Boris nodded and walked away without another word. No fight, no argument or explanation, he just left. I didn’t want him to push back, but it pained me to see how scared he was to do so. There were very few instances where I’d seen Boris afraid, and this was the first instance where I made him feel that way. It never sat right with me.

After hearing the front door close, the house barren and a skeleton of what it once was, time went wrong. It seemed slow, every second felt painful, until I looked at the clock and realized it had been hours. I was stuck where I stood, stuck in my head, and stuck between conflicting desires. I wanted to be alone, but I wanted Boris with me. I wanted to forget, but there was a comfort in remembering. 

I took my painting to my bedroom, concealed it and taped it to my headboard, and then there was nothing left to do. I tried to watch a film, but I found it boring alone. I read, and I slept, and I even did my fucking homework, but eventually I ended up sitting on the kitchen floor with a broken whisky bottle laying in shards around me. It wasn’t much fun drinking alone either, I don’t know why I did it.

I was looking out the glass sliding door, buzzed and dreary. I humored walking out into the desert and never coming back, as I often did when alcohol was involved, but I stayed put instead. I felt that maybe if I went still, the world around me would pass by and I’d be an adult back in New York in the blink of an eye. Of course, that hadn’t happened.

The front door opened and closed, and I watched hopefully for him to bound around the corner, clad in his beaten boots and wrinkled shirt, but it was none other than Xandra. Seeing her shocked me, even after those two years, because her presence didn’t seem needed any longer. Without my father tying her to me, what was keeping her from packing her life up and leaving me in the dust?

More than I was surprised to see her, I was off put by the concerned look on her face the moment she laid eyes on me. She said my name, softly but sharp, as if she wanted to scold me but felt as if she couldn’t.

“Get up, kid.” She ordered strictly, but the worry was underlying. “I’ll clean this up and— jesus christ! Did you fucking cut yourself?”

The sting in my palm was hardly noticeable. I shrugged.

“Goddamn it, just get up.” I stumbled to my feet and fell into a chair seat at the island. I watched Xandra fret around the kitchen, a scowl on her face. 

“I didn’t mean to.” I realized how dry my throat felt, and how much my body cried out for water.

She sighed dramatically, “Apparently.”

Xandra swept up the glass, I watched silently. She then disappeared and came around with a bandaid and a wet washcloth, telling me “it’s all we have” before handing the items over and having me dress my wounds by myself. I was too caught up in her use of “we” to take offense, not that I would have been cared much anyways.

When my hand was free of red and decorated with the tan bandage, I turned to Xandra as she lit her cigarette. “Do you want me to leave?” 

She froze, thought, and continued as if nothing had happened. “Leave, stay, whatever. You can do what you want.” 

“But do you want me to leave?” 

“I don’t care.”

“You have to have some idea.”

“I don’t.” She hisses, glaring at me. “I don’t give a shit if you run away to La La Land or never leave your room— I don’t care what you do with your life. Got it?”

“Yeah,” I slumped back in the chair, fingers running over the smooth surface of the bandaid. “I was going to leave. Tonight.”

“Why didn’t you?” She wasn’t offended, nor upset, merely curious.

I shook my head, not wanting to say the truth. “Wasn’t ready, I guess.”

Xandra eyes me, blowing smoke away. “Was Boris going with you?”

“I don’t know.” 

Xandra hums to herself, “I think that kid would follow you anywhere.” I said nothing. “In all honesty, I thought you two ran off last night. Certainly didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Yeah, well…” That’s life, I wanted to say, but I never did. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I went upstairs and fell asleep.

III.

It was 3:07 AM when I woke up. I was sweating and my heart tried to burst out of my chest and I felt scared. The dream had since left my memory, but the effect it had on me lingered.

I could feel the smoke in my lungs, thick and dark and burning its way through my body. I kicked and thrashed to get out from under the rubble, bruised and bleeding. I couldn’t see, the world was blurry and dark and I couldn’t breathe. My hands were wet with blood, red and stained forever. 

I landed harshly on the floor, and the carpet felt like ash. I walked through the darkness, stumbling over purses and bodies, and pushed the fallen concrete out of the way and I could see it, even in the dark. I ripped it off the wall and pressed it against my chest. I sunk to the floor in tears that fell silently, struggling for every breath, and feeling the way it weighed down my arms as it laid in them. 

I fell asleep there, slumped against the wall of my bedroom, The Goldfinch in my death grip. I promised to never let it go again, but I don’t know who asked me to keep it.

IV.

I went to school the next day. I heavily considered skipping, avoiding all my problems by locking myself away for eternity, but that hardly seemed helpful. I found myself not wanting to be alone, especially when knowing I could quickly end my loneliness if it weren’t for my tangled web of emotions towards Boris.

I also thought about leaving again, after the echoes of the explosion faded away. By then I was too exhausted to simply get off the floor, let alone call a taxi, and when I woke up again that morning school seemed like the only option.

As I was rummaging through my locker (usually I didn’t bother getting the needed things for class, but that day was a rare occasion), Boris stood beside me. He leaned against the next locker over but hadn’t spoken to me. He kept his head down and waited for a conversation that never began. I walked to class without even casting a glance in his direction.

Giving Boris the cold shoulder felt wrong. Everything about this felt wrong. Was I even mad at him at all? Or was I unfairly taking out my problems on him? My shame and betrayal had gotten so muddled together, blurring the lines and making it hard to tell which side I was walking. My anger towards myself and my anger towards Boris had practically become the same thing.

Two periods later, our first period together in a school day, I set the civics textbook on Boris’s desk. It banged loudly against the surface, attracting the attention of our classmates, and from the look on his face he recognized it. He knew what it was, what it stood for, and how it’s become a divider between us. I sat at the desk beside him yet pretended he never existed (something I wished was true, but could have never been).

The longer the day dragged on, the more I hesitated to ignore his presence. He kept his distance and hardly spoke a word to me, but he was always around in one way or another. Even when I tried my best to push him away, even succeeded a few times, he bounded back and prepared for another shove. His constant presence made it difficult to stay upset, but I was just as persistent with my silent treatment no matter how childish.

Lunch was the worst period of that strenuous day. I wanted to skip, but the offer of free food was hard to pass up back then. I assumed Boris thought the same thing, as he was hot on my heels in the lunch line. After a moment's contemplation, I sat with the German kids. Despite the language barrier, I could find more solace in them than any other group of kids my age. I never saw where Boris sat that day because I never looked for him.

On the bus we were in different seats, although not far apart. He chose the seat beside mine. It felt as if we were waiting for the other to break, with our sneaky side glances and accidental eye contact, but neither of us wanted to be first. It was a waiting game that neither of us knew how to play, and I was tired of it by the time we got to our road.

We got off the bus together, walked down the dirt covered street, all in complete and utter silence. I could hear the breeze brushing my ears and the sand being picked up by it.

IV.

For many days following, Boris’s desk was empty.

V.

Two days turned into three, three turned to five, and suddenly it had been a week since I had last seen Boris. I knew sooner or later he’d have to show his face around school, whether to get a decent meal or to avoid the legal implications of his truancy. 

I was worried at first, my mind spiraling into the black whole of what ifs. What if it’s his dad? What if he ran away? Overdosed? Moved to Russia or Australia or whatever the fuck? But after a few days my anxieties diminished, and I became less concerned about the whole situation. I didn’t care that I had no friends, or that I was failing two classes, I didn’t care much about anything at all.

Monday rolled around and I had been caught smoking under the right wing stairwell. I had earned myself a detention, although the teacher and I both knew a slap on the wrist would hardly have an effect. I didn’t mind having detention, it was an easy excuse to stay out of the house (and away from Boris) and a place where not wanting to talk was more than okay. This detention, however, wasn’t as comforting as the others.

Fifteen minutes late walked in Kotku, of all people. Merely the sight of her gave me a guttural instinct to roll my eyes and turn my back to her. She sat in the back, the opposite corner I was in, and seemed as displeased as I knew her to be. Still, despite my disdain for her, I couldn’t help but be a silent observer. 

In some ways, Kotku was the closest I could get to Boris without actually interacting with him. In my mind she was an extension of him, she wouldn’t have even existed in my life if it wasn’t for Boris. I could be far away and near him, I could push him away and keep him too.

At the end of the detention, when Kotku was making a beeline for the door, a sudden spike in interest overcame me and I chased after her. When I called her name out her overlined blue eyes felt like being violently suffocated in the Arctic Ocean.

“What?” She snapped, glowering at me.

“I just…” What had I even wanted to ask her? 

Kotku, as I just then realized, had a faded bruise on her cheekbone. It was small and barely harmful, but I recognized it all too well as I’ve had the same injury. I recalled the bruises on Boris that night and connected the dots. At first I was uncertain about that side of their relationship, but after a while I accepted that it was the way they work and the way the world works and that I may never understand.

Kotku huffed audibly, wanting her annoyance with me to be known, and began to walk away. She didn’t get very far before I blurted out, “Have you seen Boris?”

Kotku scoffed, “Screw you.” 

“Is he with you?” I asked, taking a step closer. She took two steps back.

“Is he with me?” She echoed, “Some fucking joke.”

“If anyone has seen him, it would be you. Right?” I questioned, now unsure. I second guessed myself. Boris would retreat to Kotku if no one else was there, wouldn’t he? That’s what I believed, at least.

“You don’t know?” Asked Kotku.

“Know what?”

“Boris dumped me. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t give a shit anymore.” She did care and we both knew it, but I kept my mouth shut and let her walk out the exit.

I stood in the hallway, unsure of what else was to be done. Boris, the one in my imagination, was rotting away inside his house for me to find. He was stuck in a house with his father, tiptoeing his way around him. Boris was alone, and it was the painting's fault. The Goldfinch was always at the center of everything in my life, the good and the bad. Especially the bad.

I went home that day and opened the painting up. I unwrapped it carefully, tore it free piece by piece until the strokes of paint created one image. I wanted to make sure it was still in my hands, that it hadn’t slipped away again. I brought it to my chest in an embrace, gentle and light, but deep down I wanted to crush it. 

I wanted it to be anything but my life’s heart, but I always knew that you can’t get rid of your heart and survive it.

VI.

The days moved slowly with Boris. I went from class to class alone, watched movies by myself, and swam by myself, and drank by myself, and everything was lonely. I skipped enough school for Xandra to get a call about it, but she was more upset about being bothered than me playing hooky.

After the call, the guidance counselor called me down to his office. He never did much at school, nothing that really mattered. He sat in his office all day, checking grades on computers and calling down the failing kids to ask if things were okay at home. There was never any follow up, no further questions or care, only an invitation to see him again and then you’d never see him again. 

The first thing he asked me was, “You don’t seem to like school very much, do you?” It was an attempt at a joke, a joke that was painfully misplaced.

“I guess so.” I retorted, a bit too harsh for anyone’s liking.

The counselor cleared his throat. I read the name tag on his desk, Mr. Salgado. I had never learned his name before then. He was a faceless entirety that Boris and I would avoid at all costs, ducking our heads in the halls, conveniently missing from class whenever one of us got called down to his office, but now it was only me. I had no means of escape alone.

“Here’s the thing,” He became stern so suddenly that I would’ve been intimidated if I were anybody else. “This year has been rough for you, I understand that. What with your father's passing, but you—“

“You think this is about my dad?” I fired back, an inappropriate chuckle dying in my throat.

“But,” He sighs, seemingly in defeat. “You need to start thinking of your future, Theo. I know you’re a smart kid, your record back in New York reflects that. You have so much potential.”

The future. I avidly dodged the topic for years, the mere thought of it would oftentimes send me down a rabbit hole I couldn’t climb out of. I refused to think of it. It seemed wrong to have a future my mother wasn’t a part of, and it seemed even worse to have a future the painting was a part of.

“You just need that extra push,” Continues Mr. Salgado. I hadn’t been listening to his tirade.

“Can I go now?” I made it obvious his words went in one ear and out the other, and he knew it. He knew when he brought me in there that I wouldn’t give a shit what he had to say.

Mr. Salgado tried to hide his disappointment, but I could see through his facade. “Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll write you a pass.”

I stood up from the seat, wanting out of the trapped feeling it brought upon me, and waited for Mr. Salgado to write on the little yellow sheet of paper.

He handed it to me eventually, “See me anytime, Theo.” He told me, smiling, but I never did see him again.

I went home after that, rather unmotivated to go from class to class, and the day blended together with the rest. Uneventful, slow, nothing. 

When I got home later that day, Xandra and her friends were all gathered in the living room. All dressed up to sip white wine, watch whatever was on the television, and talk shit about the friends that weren’t there. I looked at Xandra, and Xandra saw me, and that was close enough to a hello before I locked myself in my room for the remainder of the night.

I tried to write a letter to Pippa, but the paper remained blank except for her name scribbled at the top. “Dear Pippa.” Every time I thought of her I could picture her face, but when I tried to really look at the picture it became blurry. I could make out the color of her hair, her skin— what was the color of her eyes again? When we stood beside one another, where did her body stop and mine keep going? And her voice, what had it sounded like? I tore the paper into pieces and threw it all in the trash.

The next morning, slightly hungover on stolen white wine, Popchik got into the trash and ate the remnants of my failed attempt to flee to the past. I chased her around the house to get the bits of mushy paper out of her mouth. When I went to refill Popchik’s food bowl, I came to find out the dog food had ran out. I checked the fridge, the pantry, the cabinets, and all were only stocked with various spices and the detestable food no one would willingly ingest.

I took Popchik outside, and then I left for the bus stop around noon. The walk was slow, but oddly peaceful in some indescribable way. The glaring sun, the barren streets and houses, the complete feeling of solitude only desirable after spending so much time alone that you begin to prefer it. I found myself disappointed when I made it to the bus, however I was early and waited on the sand-dusted bench. 

I kicked pebbles into the road, made shapes and traced my shadow in the sand. I hated waiting. Long stretches of silence, nothing to keep you preoccupied, it was synonymous with torture. And out there in the desert, there was no sense of time, just the sun and the moon. It was hard tell if it had been a minute of if it had been a lifetime.

As a cloud drifted across the sun, a body sat next to mine on the bench. I knew who it was. He was cast in a shadow from the overthrown sun, wearing stolen clothes and dirt-covered sunglasses. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he felt my glare.

“Where are you going?” Boris had asked, looking across the way. “You leaving?”

“No, I don’t know if I will anymore.” It surprised neither of us that I actually answered.

“Why not?” He looked at me then, through the shaded glasses. I was looking at my reflection in his eyes.

“Doesn’t seem right, I guess.” I shrugged, play it off cool. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Right?

“Oh,” He tilted his head. “Made it seem important, need to go now. Very serious. Thought you would be gone that night.”

“I thought so too.” I rolled a rock under my shoe before kicking it. I watched it tumble across the desert floor.

“I am…” He took a moment, let out a strangled sigh. “Am glad you stayed.”

I couldn’t find the right words to say, but I didn’t need to. The bus rolled up, stopping right in front of us. I got up from the bench and walk right onto the bus, no passengers got off on our street. No one around took the bus except for us.

Realizing Boris wasn’t behind me, I turned around and asked: “Aren't you coming?”

Still seated at the bench, Boris shrugged. “No.”

The door closed and I took a seat. I watched Boris’s figure grow smaller and smaller until he was just a dark spec in the distance. Until he was nothing.

It didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want that.

VII.

I thought about it for the first time since that night. Blue shadows, yellow light.

The door had been open, not too much but just enough to let some light slip through. Stripes of gold lit up his skin, his eyes were no longer black. Brown and gold and all the things I never saw them as before.

He took the glasses off my face, set them on the nightstand. We smelled of alcohol and chlorine and cigarettes and sweat and the Vegas air. We were quiet, the room was still, but it felt as if we were talking. We were talking in our own way, the way only the two of us could.

I looked at him. I looked at him and I didn’t want to feel the way I did. 

And now my eyes aren’t on him. I’m looking up at my bedroom ceiling, alone in a dark blue room, and that feeling is still there. This time I want to feel it. 

VIII.

“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away  
And then you will fall to the floor crying,  
And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you  
You’re falling to the floor crying thinking,  
“I am falling to the floor crying,”  
But there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, While you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor  
And you realize you didn’t paint it very well.”

— Richard Siken, In The Quietness


	3. the same mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, but i guess that’s expected of me now lol. this chapter is a bit shorter than others, but there’s A LOT to unpack here. 
> 
> (also, ignore the spelling mistakes if there are any)
> 
> i hope you enjoy the chapter <3

I.

“Sorry about that.   
Sorry about the bony elbows  
Sorry we lived here  
Sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.”

— Richard Siken, Crush

II.

“Potter, wake up!”

A sting appeared on my cheek, numbing and painful. I jumped out of my seat in a disoriented fog. My eyes were heavy, my glasses lopsided, and I couldn’t seem to see too far ahead but the surroundings were familiar enough. We were in school, Civics class.

Someone walked into my shoulder as they passed, they scoffed as they left the room. I let myself glare at them, then turned to face him. Boris. Messy black hair, pale skin, dark circles around his dark eyes. He looked like shit.

“You look like shit.” I said.

“You are one to talk.”” He chuckled, then hit my shoulder. “It's Lunch, I am very hungry. Come on.”

I followed him out of the class, and on our way out I saw a textbook sitting face-up on the floor. I froze, I hadn’t known why, and I picked it up. Smiling faces, five, an american flag waving proudly behind them. I felt a pit in my stomach, but why? That was something I hadn’t realized yet.

“Potter?” I looked up, Boris waiting in the doorway.

“Is this yours?” I asked, holding out the book for him. I don’t know why I thought it had been his, but I didn’t question drawing that conclusion either.

Boris shifted on his feet, hands playing with a loose thread on his old backpack. “No, I have mine.”

“Oh,” I nodded and set the book down. Words kept falling from my mouth, I couldn’t control it. “You haven’t had your textbook in weeks. I thought you lost it?”

“No, not lost.” He stammered. “Is at home, somewhere.”

I fought off a smile. “So you lost it?”

“Somewhere, lost, blah blah blah. Same thing, is it not?” Tossing an arm over my shoulder, he led us out of the room and I let him. “Now, let’s eat, yes?”

I smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

Walking through the doorway, I prepared for a storm of grey clouds and burning lungs, but it never came. It wasn’t that kind of dream, I guess. 

II.

Forgiving Boris felt different than if it had been anyone else. With anyone else, they’d simply say they’re sorry, and whether they were sincere or not wouldn’t matter. I’d forgive them, maybe hold a bit of a grudge I'd never get over, but it wouldn’t have been anything troublesome. I’d get on with my life, right past all the bullshit I’d have forgiven and lied about forgetting. 

But this isn’t anyone else. And this isn’t something petty, something so juvenilelike Tom with the cigarettes. This is Boris and this is the painting, the one person that kept me in the present and the last thing that has kept me in the past. Having both worlds clash in such a way made my universe implode.

I had one foot in the door, the other out, and no way to be completely in one without losing the other. It felt as if forgiving Boris would be a grand betrayal in some way, a sever in the connection to everything that was before. I couldn’t see a way to keep them both, but I so desperately wanted to.

I came to the conclusion, in my teenaged reasoning, that the best option was to act as if the problem never existed. It was a much harder task than intended; every time I saw Boris he would remind me of the painting, and every night when I unwrapped the painting I would think of Boris. They were no longer two distanced times in my life, they existed in the same space but one's existence was detrimental to the other. 

I later came to the conclusion that that conclusion was fucked, and that I may never find an end to the means. 

After the bus stop, I was in a never-ending loop of ‘what now?’ Do I keep avoiding? Should I do the opposite and face the problem head on? Or do I float, aimlessly wandering around, hoping confrontation never happens but not running away if it does? And what about Boris and I? Are we still friends? Does he hate me? Do I hate him? No, I never hated him. I knew that, even back then. I could never hate him for more than one reason. That one reason lingered in the back of my mind, beginning to take root, but I tried not to think of it.

It’s not the right time, I kept justifying. Not now. 

But when would it be? I wondered, time and time again. I considered that maybe there would never be a time for that. 

Not now. 

Not soon. 

Not late. 

Not ever. 

Right?

III. 

The next day, the day after the bus stop, I found myself standing outside the guidance counselors office. I didn’t know why, or how, but there I was.

For a moment, I contemplated it. In the contemplation came a scenario I would surely never see play out. I’d walk through the door, admit I needed help without actually saying it, and life would get better with every session. Maybe I would have gotten prescribed medicine again, or have been appointed to an actual therapist. No more nightmares, no more morbid thoughts, no more anxieties. I would become a functional member of society.

The moment didn’t last long, none of them ever had. I had tried it before— the shrinks and the pills— after the bombing. None of it worked for me. All it managed to do was get me comfortable with the idea of drugs and the way they felt inside a body. It hadn’t helped me the first go, it wouldn’t have helped me with a second chance. 

The bell rang and I went to class, but I couldn’t get that scenario out of my mind. No matter how stupid is may have been. 

IV.

Three days after the bus stop, I sat with Boris on the bus ride to school. It was a small step, hardly even noticeable, but it felt like a mile to me.

V.

It was Friday and Boris and I were smoking in the boys room. We had a test in Civics that neither of us were prepared for, not that we were ever prepared for anything school handed to us. We gave up on it and everyone else gave up on us, but we liked it that way. We had more freedom.

We were leaned against the tiled walls, facing each other across the width of the cracked open window. Boris had the cigarette between his bony fingers, the smoke gently drifting upwards and being sucked out the window by the desert breeze. He wasn’t looking at me, but I was looking at him. I think he knew I was staring.

Boris hadn’t said much, and neither had I, but we both understood each other nonetheless. He knew I had forgiven him, and I knew he was glad I was back in his life. Living is boring when you’re doing it all alone. It doesn’t matter how much practice you had before, because when you get company it’s hard to adjust to a life when deprived of it. 

I had a question on the tip of my tongue. Something meaningless and stupid. But just like sharing a seat with him on the bus, it felt majorly important. 

“Why did you break up with Kotku?” I asked the question anyways. Half of me wanted to keep it to myself, the other knew I’d die if I did.

Boris glanced at me with his dark eyes and shrugged lazily. “I was to leave. Couldn’t be with her when I was with you, you know?”

I sighed quietly, refusing to let my sight waver from his eyes. “But you’re still here.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Boris never left. Kotku had no reason to be left behind by then.

“Do you want me to get back with her?” Boris asked.

“No.” I said all too quickly, but I didn't care. That part of me that needed to stay hidden wanted him to know. 

Boris’s lips twitched into a smile. “Good.” 

“I guess.” I said with a shrug of my shoulders, feigning indifference. “Do you want to come over after school? Xandra is on a trip with her friends and won’t be back until Sunday.”

Boris chuckled under his breath and flicked the ash off the cigarette. “Why not leave now?” He queried mischievously.

He held out the cigarette for me. Yes or no. His eyes met mine. I took the cigarette and brought it to my lips, blowing the smoke out the window.

I didn’t need to say yes for him to know I said it. 

VI.

Boris made himself feel at home, and it was almost as if nothing had happened. 

I felt the wall between us slowly fall, turning to rubble and dust beneath our feet. We could see each other over what was left of the wall, eye level and capability of understanding, but I needed a few more pushes for it to collapse completely. All that was needed was my say so, but I was too scared. 

We ended up watching an old black and white movie in the living room. On the couch, we sat side by side. Any slight movement and we would be touching, so I made sure not to move. Boris has no restraint. I envied him for that, although I’d never admit that to anyone else but myself.

I half heartedly watched the movie, but my focus was elsewhere. For a boy that reflected such coldness and imprudence, he was warm. It was hot as it had always been in Vegas, yet if my attention went unchecked I’d find myself leaning into his warmth. It scared me that I wouldn’t realize I was doing it. It scared me because I knew what it meant. I knew.

Towards the end of the movie, where Gable refuses the money, I felt something touch my hand. It was fleeting. I thought I had imagined it. Then it happened again. It never moved again. I glanced to Boris, and he was staring at the screen blankly. The television light reflected in his eyes the only emotion I could read on him, and it wasn’t even his.

I casted my gaze down, to our hands that met in the middle. Boris’s pinky was crossed over mine, a subtle gesture that I wasn’t even sure was a gesture. But it was Boris. All the things he does, he means. I tested the rough waters, moving my hand ever so slightly under his. I felt my heart get all caught up in my throat, restricting my breathing and train of thought. 

Boris then shifted his body, and I met his eyes with mine. He was facing my now, chest and shoulders in my direction and giving it a sense of openness. After a moment’s contemplation, I moved to match his position. We were like a mirror yet not at all.

When you look into a mirror, you see yourself. You see what you believe is good. You see what you believe is bad. And you see what believe is ugly. After my mother died, I looked in the mirror and believed there was no good left in me. She took it all with her and left it in that museum. Not even the police or myself couldn’t find it underneath the rubble and decay. I couldn’t look in the mirror for a long time.

Then came Boris. He came into my reflection beside me and broke the mirror with his own hands, leaving his knuckles bloody and hurt. And he surprised me by giving me a new mirror. There were no cracks, no scrapes, no dirt. It was clean and clear, and I could see us both in its reflection. I saw the bad and the ugly I had always seen in myself, but in Boris I saw the good. In that mirror he gave to me, he also gave me the good I lost hope in finding. 

I had nothing to give him, I realized then. Maybe Boris broke my mirrors, but he always gave me one back. I couldn’t offer him shit. I was a burden, I was a way to pass the time, I shouldn’t have mattered to him but I did. Something within the bad and the ugly of my reflection, he saw something worth keeping. Could Boris have seen the good in me that I thought I had lost? Can Boris not see the good in himself that I see? Maybe we’re not ever meant to find the good in ourselves, but let others seek it out and keep it safe.

“Theo.” He said. He said my name. 

“I’m sorry.” I told him. My voice sounded thick, suffocated with the tears I kept at bay. “I’m sorry.” I repeated again. He had to know.

“Is okay.” Boris whispered to me.

“It’s not.” I shook my head. I felt the tears collecting in my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He reached out for me, his hand warm against my neck. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Not a thing.” His thumb rubbed circles against my skin.

“I don’t have anything to give to you.” I explained poorly. Surely, I had made no sense to him. I was talking like a madman. 

“You don’t need to give.” Said Boris quietly, leaning in towards me. Our foreheads touched, reminiscent of that night. “I do not give to you. Is not about that.”

A tear ran down my cheek. Boris wiped it away. “What is it about?” I asked, my voice barely audible. I wasn’t even sure if I had actually said it aloud.

Boris never answered the question. Instead, he wrapped his white arms around me and pulled me towards him. The credits of the film rolled, but we hadn’t moved.

We had the same mirror. 

VII.

I had a dream that night. 

I woke up to smoke filling my lungs. Burning my throat, burning my chest, burning my eyes. I could hardly see, but what I could I wish I hadn’t. Fallen debris surrounded me, bloody and crushed bodies laid all around, and a fire was edging towards the room. It was the museum— the room with the Rembrandt hanging on display. I looked and it was still there. The Anatomy Lesson.

I pushed myself up to my feet. My entire body ached. I forced one foot in front of the other, getting caught on limp hands and pieces of the ceiling. The fire burned bright against the dullness of the museum. Orange in a world grey. There was something attractive about it. I walked towards it, knowing it’d hurt me but preferring that over walking out the door without her.

Closer and closer I came to the flame, and then I heard it. The clink of a lighter being opened, a cigarette being burned. I turned my head to the right and Boris was there. He was sitting on a cushioned loveseat with his legs crossed nonchalantly. He was pristine; not a speck of dirt on his black attire. The lighter, golden and shiny, held that same orange flame. I walked towards it instead. 

I sat down beside Boris. I was covered in ash, but he didn’t care. He only smiled sideways at me and offered me the cigarette. Gladly, I took it. I breathed in more smoke, but this time it didn’t burn. It felt as if I was breathing in fresh air, like the air my mother missed sorely from her childhood. I blew the smoke into the air. It fades in with the rest.

Boris nudged my side and pointed across the room. I followed where he gestured to with squinted eyes, trying to adjust within the dim lighting. I found what he was looking at after a bit. It was the Goldfinch.

“What are you going to do with it?” Boris questioned, his eyes never leaving mine. They held a fondness in them that I revered.

Whatever future I imagined, the painting way always there. Never out for the world to see, but tucked away and hidden for all eternity. One day, when I passed away, I knew someone would stumble across it and I’d be remembered as a criminal art thief. That title felt wrong, but was that not what I had been? The painting would always be there.

The more I thought about it, with Boris’s question repeating in my head, I began to wonder. I could never go back in tom and undo my mistake, I knew that. Perhaps there was a way to fix my mistake, however. Return it, destroy it, turn myself in. I couldn’t see a way that wouldn’t destroy my life, but I considered that it might be worth it. Boris and I should not have been the only souls to love the painting as dearly as we had. 

“I don’t know.” I turned to face Boris, who smiled.

“Didn’t expect you to.” He admitted. His hand patted my cheek before he stood up, looking down at me with that smile. “Let me knew when is decided, yes?”

Boris walked away. He walked towards the exit and into the growing fire.

VIII.

“Hello, darling.   
Sorry about that.   
Sorry about the bony elbows  
Sorry we lived here  
Sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.   
Especially that, but I should have known.   
You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.”

— Richard Siken, Crush


End file.
